Innocent : her fancy and his fact Part 50

There was a little thrill of triumph in her voice--and Miss Leigh, wiping away her tears, looked at her timidly and curiously.

"How you dwell on the memory of that French knight!" she said. "When are you going to have your portrait painted by the modern Amadis?"

Innocent smiled.

"Very soon!" she answered--"We are to begin our sittings next week. I am to wear a white frock--and I told him about my dove Cupid, and how it used to fly from the gables of the house to my hand--and he is going to paint the bird as well as me!"

She laughed with the joy of a child.

"Fancy! Cupid will be there!"

"Cupid?" echoed Miss Leigh, wonderingly.

"Yes--Cupid!--usually known as the little G.o.d of love,--but only a dove this time!--so much more harmless than the G.o.d!"

Miss Leigh touched the diamond pendant at the girl's neck.

"You have a dove there now," she said--"All in jewels! And in your heart, dear child, I pray there is a spiritual dove of holy purity to guard you from all evil and keep your sweet soul safe and clean!"

A startled look came into the girl's soft grey-blue eyes,--a deep flush of rose flew over her cheeks and brow.

"A blessing or a warning, G.o.dmother mine?" she said.

Miss Leigh drew her close in her arms and kissed her.

"Both!" she answered, simply.

There was a moment's silence.

Then Innocent, her face still warm with colour, walked close up to the harpsichord where her father's picture stood.

"Let us talk of HIM!" she said--"Now that you know I am his daughter, tell me all you remember of him!--how he spoke, how he looked!--what sort of pictures he painted--and what he used to say to you! He loved you once, and I love you now!--so you must tell me everything!"

CHAPTER VIII

Fame, or notoriety, whichever that special noise may be called when the world like a hound "gives tongue" and announces that the quarry in some form of genius is at bay, is apt to increase its clamour in proportion to the aloofness of the pursued animal,--and Innocent, who saw nothing remarkable in remaining somewhat secluded and apart from the ordinary routine of social life so feverishly followed by more than half her s.e.x, was very soon cla.s.sified as "proud"--"eccentric"--"difficult" and "vain," by idle and ignorant persons who knew nothing about her, and only judged her by their own limited conceptions of what a successful author might or could possibly be like. Some of these, more foolish than the rest, expressed themselves as afraid or unwilling to meet her--"lest she should put them into her books"--this being a common form of conceit with many individuals too utterly dull and uninteresting to "make copy" for so much as the humblest paragraphist.

It was quite true that she showed herself sadly deficient in the appreciation of society functions and society people,--to her they seemed stupid and boresome, involving much waste of precious time,--but notwithstanding this, she was invited everywhere, and the acc.u.mulation of "R.S.V.P." cards on her table and desk made such a formidable heap that it was quite a business to clear them, as she did once a week, with the a.s.sistance of the useful waste-paper basket. As a writer her popularity was unquestionable, and so great and insistent was the public demand for anything from her pen that she could command her own terms from any publishing quarter. Her good fortune made very little effect upon her,--sometimes it seemed as if she hardly realised or cared to realise it. She had odd, almost child-like ways of spending some of her money in dainty "surprise" gifts to her friends--that is to say, such friends as had shown her kindness,--beautiful flowers and fruit for invalids--choice wines for those who needed yet could not afford them,--a new drawing-room carpet for Miss Leigh, which was, in the old lady's opinion, a most important and amazing affair!--costly furs, also for Miss Leigh,--and devices and adornments of all sorts for the pleasure, beauty or comfort of the house--but on herself personally she spent nothing save what was necessary for such dress and appearance as best accorded with her now acknowledged position. Dearly as she would have loved to shower gifts and benefits on the inhabitants of never-forgotten Briar Farm, she knew that if she did anything of the kind poor lonely old Priscilla Friday and patiently enduring Robin Clifford were more likely to be hurt than gratified. For a silence had fallen between that past life, which had been like a wild rose blossoming in a country lane, and the present one, which resembled a wonderful orchid flower, flaming in heat under gla.s.s,--and though she wrote to Robin now and again, and he replied, his letters were restrained and formal--almost cold. He knew too well how far she was removed from him by more than distance, and bravely contented himself with merely giving her such news of the farm and her former home surroundings as might awaken her momentary interest without recalling too many old memories to her mind.

She seemed, and to a very great extent she was, unconscious of the interest and curiosity both her work and her personality excited--the more so now as the glamour and delight of her creative imagination had been obscured by what she considered a far greater and more lasting glory--that of love!--the golden mirage of a fancied sun, which for a time had quenched the steadier shining of eternal stars. Since that ever memorable night when he had suddenly stormed the fortress of her soul, and by the mastery of a lover's kiss had taken full possession, Amadis de Jocelyn had pursued his "amour" with admirable tact, cleverness and secrecy. He found a new and stimulating charm in making love to a tender-hearted, credulous little creature who seemed truly "of such stuff as dreams are made of"--and to a man of his particular type and temperament there was an irresistible provocation to his vanity in the possibility of being able to lure her gradually and insidiously down from the high ground of intellectual ambition and power to the low level of that pitiful s.e.x-submission which is responsible for so much more misery than happiness in this world.

Little by little, under his apparently brusque and playful, but really studied training, she began to think less and less of her work,--the books she had loved to read and refer to, insensibly lost their charm,--she went reluctantly to her desk, and as reluctantly took up her pen,--what she had written already, appeared to her utterly worthless,--and what she attempted to write now was to her mind poor and unsatisfying. She was not moved by the knowledge, constantly pressed upon her, that she was steadily rising, despite herself, to the zenith of her career in such an incredibly swift and brilliant way as to be the envy of all her contemporaries,--she was hardly as grateful for her honours as weary of them and a little contemptuous. What did it all matter to her when half of her once busy working mornings were now often pa.s.sed in the studio of Amadis de Jocelyn! He was painting a full-length portrait of her--a mere excuse to give her facilities for visiting him, and ensure his own privacy and convenience in receiving her--and every day she went to him, sometimes late in the afternoons as well as the mornings, slipping in and out familiarly and quite unnoticed, for he had given her a key to the private door of his studio, which was reached through a small, deeply shaded garden, ab.u.t.ting on an old-fashioned street near Holland Park. She could enter at any time, and thought it was the customary privilege accorded by an artist to his sitter, while it saved the time and trouble of the rheumatic "odd man" or servant whose failing limbs were slow to respond to a summons at the orthodox front entrance. She would come in, dressed in her simple navy blue serge walking costume, and then in a little room just off the studio would change and put on the white dress which her lover had chosen as the most suitable for his purpose, and which he called the "portrait gown." It was simple, and severely Greek, made of the softest and filmiest material which fell gracefully away in enchanting folds from her childishly rounded neck and arms,--it gave her the appearance of a Psyche or an Ariadne,--and at the first sitting, when he had posed her in several att.i.tudes before attempting to draw a line, she had so much sweet attractiveness about her that he was hardly to be blamed for throwing aside all work and devoting himself to such ardent delight in woman's fairness as may sometimes fall to the lot of man. While moving from one position to another as he suggested or commanded, she had playfully broken off one flower from a large plant of "marguerite" daisies growing in a quaint j.a.panese pot, close at hand, and had begun pulling off the petals according to the old fanciful charm--"Il m'aime!--un peu!--beaucoup!--pa.s.sionement!--pas du tout!" He stopped her at the word "pa.s.sionement," and caught her in his arms.

"Not another petal must be plucked!" he whispered, kissing her soft warm neck--"I will not have you say 'Pas du tout!'"

She laughed delightedly, nestling against him.

"Very well!" she said--"But suppose--"

"Suppose what?"

"Suppose it ever came to that?"--and she sighed as she spoke--"Then the last petal must fall!"

"Do you think it ever will or can come to that?" he asked, pressing a kiss on the sweet upturned lips--"Does it seem like it?"

She was too happy to answer him, and he was too amorous just then to think of anything but her soft eyes, dewy with tenderness--her white, ivory-smooth skin--her small caressing hands, and the fine bright tendrils of her waving hair--all these were his to play with as a child plays with beautiful toys unconscious of or indifferent to their value.

Many such pa.s.sages of love occupied their time--though he managed to make a good show of progressive work after the first rough outline drawing of the picture was completed. He was undeniably a genius in his way, uncertain and erratic of impulse, but his art was strong because its effects were broad and simple. He had begun Innocent's portrait out of the mere desire to have her with him constantly,--but as day after day went on and the subject developed under his skilled hand and brush he realised that it would probably be "the" picture of the Salon in the following year. As this conviction dawned upon him, he took greater pains, and worked more carefully and conscientiously with the happiest results, feeling a thrill of true artistic satisfaction as the picture began to live and smile in response to his masterly touch and treatment. Its composition was simple--he had drawn the girl as though she were slowly advancing towards the spectator, giving her figure all the aerial grace habitual to it by nature,--one little daintily shaped hand held a dove lightly against her breast, as though the bird had just flown there for protection from its own alarm,--her face was slightly uplifted,--the lips smiled, and the eyes looked straight out at the world with a beautiful, clear candour which was all their own.

Yet despite the charm and sweetness of the likeness there was a strange pathos about it,--a sadness which Jocelyn had never set there by his own will or intention.

"You are a puzzling subject," he said to her one day--"I wanted to give you a happy expression--and yet your portrait is actually growing sad!--almost reproachful! ... do you look at me like that?"

She opened her pretty eyes wonderingly.

"Amadis! Surely not! I could not look sad when I am with you!--that is impossible!"

He paused, palette in hand.

"Nor reproachful?"

"How? When I have nothing to reproach you for?" she answered.

He put his palette aside and came and sat at her feet on the step of the dais where he had posed her.

"You may rest," he said, smiling up at her--"And so may I." She sat down beside him and he folded her in his arms. "How often we rest in this way, don't we!" he murmured--"And so you think you have nothing to reproach me for! Well,--I'm not so sure of that--Innocent!"

She looked at him questioningly.

"Are you talking nonsense, my 'Sieur Amadis'?--or are you serious?" she asked.

"I am quite serious--much more serious than is common with me," he replied, taking one of her hands and studying it as the perfect model it was--"I believe I am involving you in all sorts of trouble--and you, you absurd little child, don't see it! Suppose Miss Leigh were to find out that we make the maddest love to each other in here--you all alone with me--what would she say?"

"What COULD she say?" Innocent demanded, simply--"There is no harm!--and I should not mind telling her we are lovers."

"I should, though!" was his quick thought, while he marvelled at her unworldliness.

"Besides"--she continued--"she has no right over me."

"Who HAS any right over you?" he asked, curiously.

She laughed, softly.

"No one!--except you!"

"Oh, hang me!" he exclaimed, impatiently--"Leave me out of the question. Have you no father or mother?"

She was a little hurt at his sudden irritability.